CLOSE TO YOU: Enhanced (Lost Hearts) (6 page)

             
More important, she was afraid all the time.

             
She suspected everyone.

             
The Hispanic man—he knew how to frighten a woman with a glance.

             
Senator Oberlin—something about him had made her uncomfortable right away, and he'd conveniently come to her rescue in the parking lot. Perhaps he'd arranged to have the tire slashed so he could approach her.

             
Linda—she was jealous and spiteful.

             
Brad, Cathy, everyone Kate met, every teenager who toured the capitol and recognized her as a broadcaster, every man who looked her over and flirted.

             
Even now, with the sun barely setting toward the west, she glanced behind her as she crossed the street behind the capitol complex. She had never been like this before, and she knew that, laughter or no laughter, mockery or no mockery, she had to contact the police. Now.

             
No job was worth dying for.

             
As she crossed the white line in the middle of the road, she heard a motor rev, tires screech. A gray car careened around the corner—straight toward her.

             
She dove toward the sidewalk. She landed hard. She rolled, frantic. Panic scraped her mind with sharp claws.
Get away! He's after you!

             
But the car kept going. It wavered from one side of the street to another, out of control, almost overturning. Then it righted, and its tires threw up a pall of black smoke as it raced away.

             
Kate didn't know if she'd been hit or just landed hard. She didn't know if she could catch her breath. She sprawled on the sidewalk, one fingernail broken and bloody, her palms skinned, her pants torn at the knee. She blinked as black specks darkened her vision, and she fought back nausea.

             
"What the hell . . . ?"

             
Kate heard that sharp, impatient voice and lifted her head.

             
Linda knelt beside Kate, her dark eyes flashing with impatience. "What the hell just happened?"

             
"Someone tried to hit me." Crimson splattered the sidewalk beneath Kate's head. She touched her chin, and her fingers came away covered with blood.

             
"Don't be dramatic." Linda pulled out her cell phone. As she dialed 911, she said, "Whoever did it was probably drunk. I didn't get the license plate, but it was a gray Infiniti sedan, a G37, I think."

             
Pain was starting to seep through Kate's shock.

             
"I couldn't see the driver, the windows were tinted." Linda must have connected with the operator, for she said into the phone, "I need an ambulance on the corner of Fifteenth Street and San Jacinto. There's been a hit-and-run accident—"

             
"No." Kate shook her head heavily. "No. This was no accident."

             
Slowly Linda pulled the phone away from her ear. "What do you mean?"

             
"I've got a stalker." Kate finally admitted it aloud. "I'm being stalked."

FOUR

             
"Here's what we're going to do." In his office Monday morning, Brad rapidly typed an e-mail with two short, pudgy index fingers. "We're going to assign you to a story on the premier bodyguard service in town. Ramos Security provides security for the capitol. Their bodyguards handle all the visiting honchos and escort the local society ladies whenever they wear their big diamonds."

             
Kate stood before his desk and listened and nodded. She had bandages on her hands and knees and stitches closing the cut on her chin. She wore a cream turtleneck sweater, a dark brown tweed knee-length skirt, and a severely cut, matching brown tweed jacket. The formality of the outfit armored her with confidence, a confidence she usually sported in abundance. A confidence that had been badly shaken.

             
Besides, the long sleeves and the dark stockings covered her bruises. She sported an especially large purple bruise on her hip where she had apparently been hit by the car. "I'd like to know why I was the lucky one," she said bitterly.

             
"Now, don't you worry about this stalker picking you out of the litter of reporters. I've seen this happen before. These guys—and they're always guys—are weirdos who get fixated on a broadcaster—always a new young broadcaster—and start being annoying."

             
"Annoying?" She looked down at her bandaged hands.

             
"Yeah, this one's downright dangerous. But they're never too bright, so we catch 'em fast." He shot her a sharp glance. "Especially when the broadcaster is smart enough to recognize the problem and turn 'em in."

             
"I'd say I waited about one car incident too long."

             
"That's true, too." He hit send and leaned back in his seat. "If you'd said something a few days sooner, you wouldn't have been hit, and you would have been looking good enough to continue your reports. We're going to have to wait at least a week before we put you back on camera.

             
"I know. I'm sorry."

             
He grunted, obviously unhappy at the turn of events.

             
Kate gazed out at the newsroom where everyone was working on a real story, a breaking story. "Everyone's been kind, though." Interestingly enough, they had been. Evidently Linda's brisk dismissal of Kate's problems had been her way of expressing concern, for she had stuck with Kate through her time in the emergency room and her interview with the police, and Linda must have said the right stuff to the people at the television station, for everyone had seemed shocked, and a few of them actually offered Kate spontaneous expressions of sympathy.

             
"Yeah, they're good people." Brad lit a cigarette. "I'm going to have you follow the guy who owns the bodyguard service, Teague Ramos. You tail him through his week's activities, longer if it takes longer to catch this stalker"—obviously, Brad figured a week was plenty of time—"and get together enough information to do a piece on him and how he operates."

             
"When's it going to run?" Kate asked, always the reporter.

             
Brad shot her another sharp glance. "Two minutes in the five o'clock time, and I'll give you six minutes on the Sunday-morning
Here's Austin
program."

             
"All right." Two minutes at five was okay, nothing like two minutes at the premier six and ten slots, but five was when all the human-interest stories ran, and doing a story on the owner of a bodyguard service was definitely human interest. The Sunday-morning show was a graveyard, nobody watched
Here's Austin
, a cheery local show that touted the state fair and discussed quilt making in detail. But if Kate was going to invest so much time in a story, the station had to do something to justify the outlay.

             
"This way," Brad continued, "when Teague goes to the capitol building to work, you can go with him, act like all you want is to complete your story on him. Any good leads"—he smacked his lips with satisfaction— you can feed to Linda for on-camera."               Kate drew in a hard breath. Feed Linda the good stories?

             
"You have something you want to say?" Brad fixed his narrowed eyes on her..

             
"I'll do it," Kate said. Like she had a choice. "But don't you think people at the capitol are going to notice I'm tailing some guy all day long?"

             
"Teague will make sure no one notices." Brad laughed. "You'll see. Don't worry Teague's good at what he does. In fact, he's the damned best security guy I've ever seen, and I've seen a few. For years, I've tried to get him to let me do a piece on him. I'm surprised he agreed this time. It's going to slow him down. But with him on the job, this'll be over before you know it." Brad turned his attention to his seven television screens. "And you'll be back doing what I'm paying you for."

             
At that bitter little comment, Kate backed out of the office as quietly as possible. She knew she wasn't earning her exorbitant salary, and she didn't want Brad to start brooding about that. He didn't strike her as a man who threw money around without expecting a return on his investment.

             
A silence fell in the newsroom as she walked to her desk. Not the hostile silence she'd faced before, but more the concerned silence of people who didn't know what to say in an awkward situation. Kate knew that silence; she'd faced it many times after her dad died. Making sure her glance didn't light on anyone in particular, she shot a smile around, sat at her computer, and ran an Internet search on Ramos Security.

             
The address popped up; she scribbled it down then found it on MapQuest. But the search produced little information on either the firm or Teague Ramos. She found a few small photos of him in the society section, dressed in a tux and escorting tall, thin models to various fund-raisers. He didn't look like her impression of a bodyguard—she'd expected a bodybuilder with a shaved head and an impassive expression. Instead, he looked long-legged and trim, with broad shoulders and straight, shoulder-length dark hair tied back in a black ribbon. No one wore his hair that way anymore, but she saw why Ramos did. The severe style lent a stark frame to his vital face. His dark tanned skin stretched over strong bones that defined his cheeks, his chin, his nose. He smiled down at the woman on his arm, and the woman smiled back, her expression greedy and proud.

             
Kate wasn't surprised. He was the kind of man who, even in a photograph, exuded raw sexuality. If she had him, she would be proud, too. She stared at the photo, trying to make out more detail. He looked . . . familiar. She tried making the picture bigger, but all she got was a grainy blowup.

             
As she squinted at the photo, the reporter beside hissed the alert, "Brad's up!"

             
The reporters around her were suddenly very busy or leaping to their feet and bustling away. Brad burst into the newsroom, yelling at the top of his lungs: "Who the hell was supposed to cover that train derailment? Because the cars contain dangerous materials, and I haven't seen one piece of film on the evacuation!"

             
Snatching up the address, Kate left the newsroom in a hurry.

             
Ramos Security was located in a two-story bungalow in a restored neighborhood not far from the governor's mansion. The gingerbread that decorated the front porch had been freshly painted, the steps had been refurbished with new boards, and the front door had been given a rich, red stain. A small brass plaque read:
Ramos Security, Walk In
, so Kate turned the knob.

             
The door creaked when it opened, and the receptionist seated at a desk in the foyer raised her head and smiled. "Miss Montgomery? Come on in. Oh, dear." She frowned at the sight of Kate's injuries. "That bastard got you good, didn't he? Well, don't you worry, Mr. Ramos will catch him."

             
"Thank you"—Kate's gaze skidded over the name plaque on the desk—"Brenda." It was a little spooky to be recognized, but a reporter got used to it.

             
Brenda gestured toward an elegant beveled-glass door. "Mr. Ramos is expecting you."

             
Kate walked in and found herself in what used to be a parlor. The light filtered through the tall oaks in the yard and into the casement windows, and Kate stood still, waiting until her eyes adjusted to the dim light.

             
When they did, she approved of the room. Elegant, rich in color, it was the perfect update to a classic early-twentieth-century style. The walls had been painted with a dark green below the chair rail, a mellow gold above. Cherrywood blinds hung at the tall windows, and a burgundy Persian rug covered the gleaming hardwood floor. The desk was massive, carved cherrywood, and a man stood behind the desk—tall, lean, with broad shoulders that fit perfectly into the crisp white shirt and black Armani suit. Yet his back was to the sun, leaving his face in shadow . . . until he leaned over and turned on his desk lamp.

             
The light gave substance and detail to a man who had been only smoke and shadow. His face had a stark splendor and the pitilessness of an Aztec warrior. With a last name like Ramos, he was obviously Hispanic. And his build—tall, long-legged, long-armed—made her think he must be part Anglo as well. He had the powerful shoulders of an Olympic rower, and she supposed , that beneath the clothes his biceps bulged. A white scar crossed his cheek, and his eyes were the most beautiful deep, rich golden-brown . . .